


Pinky Swear

by Hth



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: M/M, Marriage Proposal, Post-Canon, Quarantine, Quentin Coldwater Lives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-20
Updated: 2020-08-20
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:06:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26004637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hth/pseuds/Hth
Summary: Quentin sets the bar pretty low on romance, and Eliot slides right under it.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 30
Kudos: 287





	Pinky Swear

**Author's Note:**

> Clearly this is Jason Ralph's fault, because he pitched this idea on Instagram that Quentin would want to get married and Eliot wouldn't, and the whole fandom was like, THAT'S SWEET NOW SIT DOWN because pfff, yes, obviously Eliot loves weddings, this is known. But honestly, that's quitter talk! Can we write stories that are the opposite of that? YES, and they will be more canon-compliant than all of season 5. Jason up, canon down, that is how we roll tonight, my friends! If you want to call me out on my hubris, please do it on Tumblr, @spiders-hth-is-an-outlier

It's obvious that Quentin's crossed some kind of threshold with Eliot, relationship-wise, when it gets kind of – well, like – quarantine is boring, okay? It just is, everybody thinks so, and you can only pass so many weeks in a swooning haze of sex and Tequila Sunrises and gazing meaningfully into each other's eyes and having more sex. I mean, definitely for _some number of weeks_ , that is pretty much as good as life gets, but eventually-- you know?

It's a different kind of wonderful, actually, the day Quentin realizes he's kind of sick of his boyfriend's face. _His boyfriend_. Who is always around, because he loves Quentin – and, you know, pandemic. And who needs a lot of Quentin's attention, because he loves Quentin – and, you know, Eliot.

Quentin has never really had the kind of relationship that got boring in the _good_ way. That got...broken in, instead of just fucking broken.

“What are you smiling at?” Eliot asks, reaching across the table for the juice carafe. The sleeve of his fancy red robe drags through the syrup on his waffle, and he says, “Fuck,” in the most baffled, mournful tone. Quentin bursts out laughing. He can't help it. They're having breakfast. It's so boring. He wants to do it nine trillion more times, exactly like this.

“Let's get married,” Quentin says.

“Oh, fuck you,” Eliot grumbles, trying to clean his robe with a napkin dipped in sparkling water. The napkin is flaking into pieces and the syrup is not going anywhere.

“Wow,” Quentin says. “I set the bar pretty low on romance, and yet you managed to slide right on under it. I'm almost impressed.”

Eliot's eyes flicker up. He hasn't put on any concealer this morning, so the dark circles stand out pretty sharply against his skin. He says he isn't having nightmares anymore, but he sure isn't sleeping through the night, either. Quentin doesn't know why he stopped taking the sleeping pills, because that's not the kind of thing that Eliot is going to talk about unless it's his idea. “You're serious?” Eliot says.

Quentin shrugs. “Well, you know. Planning a wedding would be something to do, right?” Eliot smiles at him a little hesitantly, and suddenly something that Quentin was, like – serious about, but in a kind of take-it-or-leave-it way (not like he wants to take-or-leave Eliot, but he wasn't in any hurry) – suddenly, it's the most important thing on the whole fucked-up, unraveling planet. Now that the alternative is apparently – Eliot thinking maybe Quentin doesn't – or isn't – or that they aren't-- Now the only way out of this is through. “Yeah, I'm serious,” Quentin says gently. “I love you. Let's. Throw a big, ridiculous party about it.”

Eliot smiles at him, and he has dark circles under his eyes and his curls flattened on one side of his head and syrup on his sleeve and they haven't had anything interesting to talk about except _The Chilling Adventures of Sabrina_ for almost two months, and Quentin suddenly can't keep eating, he can't swallow, he can't even breathe. His whole embodied existence is on pause until Eliot gives him a reason to keep going, and that's just.

Same as it ever was, right?

“No,” Eliot says indulgently, like Quentin's asking for a toy two weeks before Christmas. “You're sweet, but we're not going to do that.”

“Okay,” Quentin's mouth for some reason says. “Yeah, that's. I just thought you'd be into it.”

Eliot loves parties. Eliot loves being the center of attention at parties. Eliot loves having creative control. Eliot loves _Quentin_ , Quentin knows he does. He just – he thought –

“I hurt your feelings,” Eliot says.

“No. Whatever. I thought you'd be into it, it's not a big deal.” Quentin didn't even _want_ to get married yesterday. He's literally only been thinking about this for a hundred and twenty seconds, so it's – whatever, it's whatever. It was a passing whim.

“Darling, it's not you--”

“No, it's you,” Quentin says, clipped and – uh, shiny? He's going for bright and shiny, all sparkle, the way Eliot likes to keep things. He's going for pure reflection. “I get it. You're...you. It's really fine, El.”

For some reason, that seems to concern Eliot even more. He reaches for Quentin's hand across the table, blankets it with his own big hand. “Is this something we should talk about?”

“It's something I really, really want you to drop,” Quentin says with all the love and sincerity in his heart.

Eliot gives him a wry little smile and lets him go. They don't talk for the rest of breakfast, except about how the waffle maker was a good investment, and there are YouTube channels about other stuff you can make in a waffle maker, they should check that out.

It's boring, and all Quentin ever wanted was the chance to be alive with Eliot long enough to run out of things to talk about, so he has everything. He does.

“Oh, my god, holy shit, _marry me marry me marry me_ ,” Quentin says about twelve hours later, his fingers wound in Eliot's curls, his eyes rolling back into his head, his cock sliding deep into Eliot's throat.

But that doesn't count. Like, obviously.

In the morning when he wakes up way too early needing to pee, Quentin's alone in bed, because they made a pact early in quarantine that they'd take up yoga together, and Eliot is somehow the person who has not abandoned that promise.

Eliot's not actually – as feckless as he likes people to think he is. By no means.

Quentin pads out into the living room, where Eliot has unrolled his yoga mat and opened the balcony doors. It's a south-facing view, so the actual sun isn't visible yet, but the sky is salmon pink. Eliot is in the zone or whatever, Quentin guesses, so he just leaves Eliot alone and gets some coffee going for both of them.

The thing about Eliot....

The thing about Eliot is that he keeps promises, mostly. He doesn't always, because life is – their lives are full of blind corners and unforeseen clusterfucks, but when it's up to Eliot, he does tend to finish what he starts. Quentin doesn't have-- _thankfully_ doesn't have very keen memories of his last two years on Fillory, but he does remember it's exactly that thought that got him up out of bed more than one time. _You can't quit – Eliot never quit – you have to see it through for Eliot, you have to make him proud._

God, that's. Fuck, he really doesn't like.

It's not something he thinks about it. It's usually easier not to think about any of it, but at least a lot of it is like – talking porcupines and peach pies and fishing and sex under the stars. The nicest parts of Fillory, the parts that never cared enough about either of them to try murdering them. Those are memories that hurt, but like – the sweet kind of hurt, like a good dream whose details fade faster the harder Quentin tries to fix them in his memories.

There was nothing sweet about the last two years. Even having his two granddaughters move back to the hill to fuss over him, happy as he was to have the chance to know them in a way he never got to know Teddy's boys, didn't make up for the way he never really stopped digging a grave in his head.

“Hey,” Eliot says from just behind Quentin's shoulder. “Whoa, sorry,” Eliot laughs, catching the carton of oat milk that Quentin almost drops in shock. “Woke you up, huh?”

“No, I'm awake,” Quentin says. Eliot bends down and Quentin kisses him on the corner of the mouth, faint stubble scraping Quentin's chin. “Good morning.”

He smells faintly sweaty – old sweat, because he's put on the same yoga pants and gray t-shirt (purple foil lettering, _I Can't, I'm a Libra_ ) for the last three mornings. It should be gross, Quentin should make him shower and change before coffee and kisses, but honestly Quentin's not precious about that kind of thing, he's literally licked worse-smelling stuff off of Eliot's body. And it's against Quentin's religion to withhold coffee; people have human rights.

“Whose turn is it to make breakfast?” Eliot asks as they drink their coffee standing up in the kitchenette, like they have somewhere they need to hurry up and head out for.

“Yours,” Quentin says.

“No, it's not,” Eliot says.

“Then why did you ask?” Quentin says, giving him a bit of sidelong look. Maybe flirting a little. They should do that more, he thinks. It's too early, honestly, to be so – married.

Eliot was right, it was a stupid idea. They should be enjoying this first year, not rushing ahead of themselves. Quentin always does this, he always finds a good thing and then wants too much of it, clings too tight, can't just let it be what it is.

“Oh,” Eliot says when Quentin turns around and crowds against him, arms around Eliot's sweat-damp waist, face pressed against the swirly foil letters across his chest. “Hey, sweetheart,” Eliot murmurs gently, petting Quentin's back with the hand that isn't holding his coffee mug. “What's all this?”

“I'm sorry to be so pushy, but – I don't know, could you just--? Is it too soon, you think, to think about getting married, or is it, do you not – want that at all? Which is fine, it's totally okay if you don't-- It doesn't change anything, I'd just kind of like to know.”

Eliot sighs softly, his chest rising and falling against Quentin. “Let's talk about this,” he says, dropping a kiss on Quentin's head. “Let me take a quick shower first, okay? And then we'll talk.”

So Eliot does that, and Quentin doesn't have the bandwidth to waffle anything, so he makes cinnamon toast and yogurt instead, and Eliot indulges him like it's a great feat of menu planning when he comes back out dressed in things that button, and also shoes and socks. Quentin hasn't put on shoes in a month, but Eliot does, every day. Why is that so fucking endearing? Is it just because – Eliot?

They eat on the couch, Quentin angled away a little so he can rest against his back against Eliot's side and neither of them have to make direct eye contact. “This means a lot to you, doesn't it?” Eliot asks.

“No,” Quentin says quickly. “Well. I didn't think it did? I don't know. I think it's easy to, you know, blow things way up in your head, when it's a new thought. I'm kind of starving for new thoughts, if that makes any sense.”

“I do not relate,” Eliot says, “but I think I grasp the theory. You know I love you, right?”

“I know,” Quentin says. He has his share of insecurities, but not about this. “Honestly, I really brought it up in the first place because I thought you'd think it was fun, you know? It wasn't for me, I don't need.... I don't need anything but this.”

Cinnamon toast, strawberry yogurt. A quiet room, a hamper full of laundry, Instacart and Zoom and DoorDash. Sunrise. Stubble. His boyfriend, safe and sound. Sex and magic and a future, their future.

“I don't need anything but us,” Quentin says, more firmly. “Whatever _us_ looks like to you, I'll take it.”

“I've been married,” Eliot says carefully. “Already. So have you.”

Quentin has – no idea how to respond to that. “Okay,” he says. “Yeah, I don't –really know what that has to do with anything, but if it makes a difference to you, that's.”

“There was a time,” Eliot says, turning his words over carefully. “There was a time I would've wanted that more than anything, with you. To show off how amazing you are in front of everyone I've ever met or heard of.” Quentin huffs, and Eliot seems to anticipate his objection to that and slides the backs of his fingers against Quentin's cheek in a gentle cue to _shush_. Quentin closes his eyes and reclines a little more into the space under Eliot's arm. “To make everyone pay attention to me and be jealous of me and think, oh, how wrong we all were, to think that Eliot would fuck up every good thing he ever found. There was a time that...marrying you would have felt like _winning life_.”

It feels a little like that to Quentin – the reverse, that is. He doesn't think he's a very competitive person, but – like, the world can _suck it_ , because it never made room for Quentin, but it turns out Quentin never needed it to. He wasted so many years hoping life would make him happy, and then when he quit hoping and just started _making a life_ , look how goddamn good he made it. Quentin low-key hates parties, but if anyone deserves a _congratulations on your whole deal_ party, it's got to be him, right? He's earned it.

“So what changed?” he asks. He's not twisted-up about it anymore, not really. It's so easy, so good, to rest against Eliot, and really Quentin's just curious now. It's something new to talk about, at least.

“I don't know,” Eliot admits. “All that time alone, I guess. I feel like I...know myself, and I never really did before. I needed other people to tell me how to feel for a long time, and then I went through a really insanely intense tour of duty through my own personality, and I guess I. I guess I'm a little possessive of the inside of my head now. It's not for everyone, it's _mine_. And it's yours, because – I want it to be. I want you to have a key, as it were. But the way I feel about you, it doesn't need to be licensed or witnessed or filed in triplicate or have rice thrown on it or whatever.”

“What's that poem?” Quentin says dreamily. “You know, the Keats – _I am certain of nothing but the holiness of the heart's affections_? Something like that.”

“I don't know, I didn't take AP, poetry nerd,” Eliot teases. “But yeah, sure. If you found something really – _holy_ or whatever, you wouldn't just throw it on Instagram and ask everyone if they wanted the salmon or the risotto when they came to look at it, and oh, by the way, bring presents, right? If you found something that was actually holy, you probably wouldn't tell a soul.”

Would he tell a soul? Quentin's not sure. He's not sure what holy looks like to him, other than a general willingness to defer to Keats on the matter. “I don't know,” Quentin says. “I may not be as evolved as you are; I like telling people we're a couple. Sorry about that, if I wasn't supposed to? That's probably information I should've had earlier, though, to be honest.”

“Tell whoever you want,” Eliot says. “I'm not hiding it, god knows, I just. I think about having a bunch of stupid napkins made up with our names on it, and I just want to – steal you away and hide you someplace, all for me. I always wanted – the quiet, the peace, but I was scared if I really had it, all these horrible things would come bubbling up about myself. But they did all come bubbling up, I had to stir them up on purpose, and now I just don't – have to be scared of that anymore. It can just be me, and you, and the quiet.”

“That does sound nice,” Quentin says. Quarantine is boring, and man cannot live on blowjobs and Audible alone and he would really do the _most_ inappropriate things just to be in a library one more time, but – the quiet is nice, in its own way. Being trusted with the key to the quiet inside Eliot's head is more than nice, and Quentin would do the most inappropriate things to prove that he really can be trusted with it. “But – just to be clear, you do – see this as, like – long-term?”

There's a strange pause, Eliot's ribs frozen where they're pressed between Quentin's shoulder blades. Eliot starts the world in motion again by slipping his arm down underneath Quentin's arm, fumbling for Quentin's hand, until his pinky is hooked firmly through Quentin's. “Just you and me, okay?” Eliot whispers into Quentin's hair. “Darling, I swear. You and me.”

Quentin remembers, or half-remembers, that maybe this isn't the first time Eliot's promised him that? And they've had more than one blind corner and a clusterfuck or two since then, but Quentin knows that Eliot was, against all odds, somehow the person who never abandoned that promise, the one who didn't quit, ever.

“I want to make you proud,” Quentin says.

“You do. More than you'll ever know.”

“I want to make you proud in front of everyone you've ever met or heard of,” Quentin clarifies, smiling with his eyes closed, hooked to Eliot by one finger and holding on. “Those bitches should know how fucking wrong they were about you.”

“I'll think about it, okay?” Eliot says, and Quentin nods and doesn't let his hand go.

Anything is okay. They are safe and sound, and everything is okay.


End file.
